ARRANGED

by R. K. Lilley

  I wasn’t at all sure if the curses were directed at me or himself. Neither seemed like a good sign.

  He didn’t linger, dragging himself out of and off of me like I’d burned him, or he was afraid that I would trap him in if he hesitated. I sucked in a breath at the brutal rawness of that swift, long, slick pull.

  I kept my eyes shut, but I felt him staring at me after, looming over me and watching.

  I don’t know if it was the unaccustomed liquor, the hostility I felt from him, or the nerve-wracking debacle of the day all coming to a head, but I suddenly and horrifyingly became quite ill.

  Oh shit, I thought in horror as my body turned on me completely.

  I almost threw up right there on the bed. It was a very close thing.

  I used my last ounce of energy to drag my limp form off the mattress, stumble across the room, stagger into the bathroom, and dive for the toilet.

  I didn’t even close the door behind me. I vaguely realized that I was having the most mortifying, graceless moment of my life in front of my new husband as my body started heaving, bile rising up.

  This wasn’t what he or his father had paid for, but I had no control over my body as I started retching, emptying out the contents of my stomach.

  My marriage had been consummated, and my wedding night couldn’t have gone worse.

  I tried to hold my hair back from my face, clear of the vomit, but I quickly gave up even on that. All of my energy reserves were being used to stay upright, aiming the deluge, and holding myself directly over the toilet bowl.

  I threw up until there was nothing left, and then I dry heaved for a good long while after that.

  When I felt reasonably confident that my stomach was done rebelling, I grabbed my toothbrush, dabbed toothpaste on it, and started brushing. I shrugged and contorted my way out of my delicate teddy with one hand, tearing it to pieces in the process. When I was finally free of it, I walked directly into the shower.

  I turned the water to scorching and stood under it. It was burning my skin, but I barely felt it. Somewhere along the course of the night I’d gone a bit numb.

  I kept brushing my teeth until I’d gotten the bad taste out of my mouth, and then started in on my hair. I shampooed it three times before it felt clean.

  I’d never been so wrung-out-tired in my life, but I stayed under the spray of water and washed every inch of myself, over and over. Each time I thought, this time I’ll feel clean, but it never happened.

  Eventually I just sat down on the tile until the water ran cold.

  A long time later I shut off the faucet and dragged myself out of the shower.

  I wrapped my hair in one towel, and my body in another. I desperately wanted to avoid the bedroom, but I needed sleep, and the bathroom floor just wouldn’t do.

  I was relieved to find that at some point he’d at least closed the bathroom door for me.

  Hopefully it had been before I’d started throwing up.

  I opened the door with dread, not wanting to face him.

  I was unutterably relieved to find him gone. I walked on shaky legs over to the huge bed.

  I winced when I saw the blood and other fluids staining the spot where we’d lain on the mattress, but I quickly moved on. I wrapped myself in every blanket I could find and curled up on the clean side of the bed.

  I don’t even remember trying to fall asleep. My head just touched the pillow, and I was out for the count.

  I had no romantic illusions when it came to my husband. Yes, he was handsome and rich, but he was no prince charming. He would never love me. He would never care about me at all.

  He owned me. I was property that was expected to behave in a certain way, and if I somehow showed I was not worth what he’d paid, I was positive that he’d promptly cut his losses and walk away.

  Even so, I was surprised when I woke up completely alone after our wedding night.

  It didn’t register at first what that meant. I assumed he’d just slept in his own room, which had been a relief after such a stressful day.

  But he hadn’t just left my room. Or even the property.

  He’d left the country. I didn’t see him again for a month.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  It was a busy month, which was for the best. When I wasn’t busy, my mind went back to him, and our disaster of a wedding night. I’d relived, rehashed, obsessed over every moment of it.

  It was a completely useless line of thought. A waste of energy. He’d done his duty—swiftly, badly—I’d humiliated myself and he’d left without a word.

  I hated that I thought about him at all, because I knew that he sure as hell wasn’t thinking about me.

  He hated me on principle, and he fascinated me in spite of myself.

  So I tried to keep myself active, and my mind occupied with other things. That wasn’t too hard.

  Two days after the wedding I was moved into a luxurious apartment in midtown Manhattan and began modeling again.

  I loved that apartment. I loved that it felt like mine.

  I’m possessive. I like to feel like the things I covet belong to me. Everybody does to some extent, I think. Everyone goes I have this little café I love or you have to try my yoga studio or check out my apartment. Those phrases are a lie in cities like New York. Nothing belongs to anyone who isn’t filthy rich. Not even a little bit. Everything is shared, but now I was one of the elite few who got to share less. It was great.

  Even better—my six month marriage-training hiatus didn’t seem to have done any harm to my career.

  Just the opposite, in fact.

  I now had more callbacks than hours in the day. My high profile wedding to the handsome son of a famous billionaire had drawn the hungry attention of the fashion world. Everyone wanted to work with the gorgeous, rich boy’s fresh new bride.

  One thing surprised me, though. How hard it was to swallow the pill of going from hunger to gluttony practically overnight.

  I’d wanted this kind of success for so long. I’d been working my ass off for it for years. Achieving it—especially the reason I was achieving it—was not nearly as satisfying as I’d always pictured. Sure, there was some gratification to be had from my newfound success, but more than anything I found contentment in the fact that it was keeping me very, very busy.

  Life was all about perspective, and I was trying my damnedest to appreciate my new position in spite of the things I’d done to reach it. To appreciate the fruits of my labor with all of the enthusiasm my cynical young heart could muster up. Thanks to my new status, modeling now came with a sense of security. All of my extravagant living expenses were taken care of by my absent husband, so every cent I earned went into my bank account, which was already very well padded due to the details of our prenup.

  I told myself that was a good thing. Just what I’d been going for. The relief of that took a lot the stress out of the job, that and the fact that I was instantly treated with more deference now that I was Mrs. Castelo.

  I’d always loved fashion, enjoyed dressing up, and for the first time I enjoyed the photo shoots, had fun with landing ad campaigns, and walked new runways like I didn’t have a care in the world. See? Untouchable.

  Well, I did have a few cares. One of which was that it felt strange to be a married woman and not feel married at all. Even when I attended events that I was invited to as Mrs. Calder Castelo, I went sans husband.

  I obediently went to Mass every Sunday with the Castelo family minus one very significant presence. I sat every week in the pews amongst his charming brothers, but his charmless self never bothered to come.

  I’d also agreed to attend many designated galas in our contract, and I even liked that part of our arrangement, but I’d always assumed I’d be attending on his arm.

  I was used to being alone. I’d been completely independent since I was sixteen, and had taken care of myself from a young age, but it still felt strange to be doing everything as a newly made Mrs. by myself.

 
; Well, that wasn’t precisely accurate. I never actually went anywhere alone. Two men escorted me. Their names were Chester and Vincent.

  Vincent was my driver. He was a short, small-framed bald man with a trim gray beard. I never asked but I guessed that he was in his fifties. He was quiet but polite to a fault. He had a rare but kind smile.

  Chester was my bodyguard. He was built like a bear, massive from his head to his size fourteen feet. I was far from short, and I almost always wore heels, and still he towered over me. He had to be at least a few inches taller even than my tall husband, though I’d never seen them standing side by side, due to the fact that I never saw my husband at all.

  He had a generous mane of fiery orange hair threaded through with streaks of gray. He usually wore it in a man bun though he refused to call it that. It matched his perfect beard and handlebar mustache. He wore thick framed glasses that complemented his sweet brown eyes. If he was a little younger, I’d have pegged him as a hipster.

  I knew that Chester was forty-six because he mentioned it often, usually when he was lamenting about his various aches and pains.

  It was Chester that went with me everywhere. He was good company, so I never minded. He was a hell of an upgrade from Asha the Dour.

  Though Asha hadn’t gone far. She didn’t escort me around as diligently as Chester, but I still had to wake up to her presence in my life every single day.

  It was almost a month in and my routine was down pat.

  I woke up at six a.m. sharp. My alarm went off and I was up and in the shower within one minute.

  God forbid I’d hit the snooze button and have Asha in my face calling me a sloth.

  From the shower, I slipped into a robe and padded to my extravagant, sunken living room. I contemplated my view of the bustling, sleepless city while I awaited my team meeting.

  Yes, I had a team. My husband was absent, of course, but I never lacked for company.

  Chester brought me coffee, and I accepted it with a grateful, “Thank you.”

  For convenience as well as protection, Chester and Vincent were housed in the apartment directly next door to mine.

  When we were home, however, they could more often be found hanging out in my living room.

  “You’re welcome, Duchess. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Chester,” I returned with a smile. His nickname for me had appeared early on in our acquaintance, and it never failed to amuse me. I hadn’t married into any kind of title aside from rich man’s wife, but I was apparently close enough to nobility for Chester. It didn’t hurt that he always infused warm affection into the word, making it an endearment.

  I liked Chester. A lot. He made it almost bearable to deal with Asha.

  Think of the devil. At just that moment Asha’s dour form swept into the room. I turned from the view to meet her severe gaze.

  “A robe is hardly decent attire to be wearing in front of men who aren’t your husband,” she opined harshly, her mean eyes raking over me.

  “It’s the crack of dawn, and I’m standing in my own living room,” I returned coldly. “I’ll wear whatever the hell I like. Just get started with today’s schedule, please.”

  I was well aware that Asha saw me as nothing but an insignificant eighteen-year-old piece of fluff who’d married for money. I’d made the mistake of deferring to her early on, as I’d been told that her job was, in essence, to manage me, and that I should listen to her. After the wedding I’d changed my strategy with her. I stopped putting up with all of her shit in silence. I didn’t have the power to fire her, but I also didn’t have to bear her insults quietly.

  So far, standing up for myself and speaking my mind had given me no consequences from her higher ups, which was fortunate, because I had no plans to stop.

  “Before we get to the schedule,” Asha began imperiously, completely ignoring our rude exchange, which was typical, “let me go over yourcall backs and bookings. You got the Stuart Weitzman job. Congratulations.” She said every word with utter disdain. “That will be very high profile. They tell me this will be an extensive amount of work for you starting as early as next week. You also received an offer to do the YSL fragrance campaign, but I’m still working with them on the schedule for that. It consists of a long video which shoots in Paris, and they want you for an entire week. That will be tricky but it’s being worked out.”

  I didn’t see why it mattered if I was gone for a week, since I never saw my husband anyway, but I didn’t say anything. This was the arrangement I’d agreed to.

  “You booked four more runway shows,” Asha continued, “and the offers are already coming in for fashion week, and let me tell you, that’s going to be a messy affair. I’ll clear it all with Mr. Castelo. What else? Oh yes. About the lingerie campaign you were offered. Your husband and the VS people finally came to an agreement. A limited one. You can take the job, but he sees each garment before you model it. They agreed to let him give the thumbs up or down, which was unexpected, but there you are.”

  Vincent, my driver, walked into the room just then, nodded his head at me and sat down without a word.

  “As for today,” Asha continued searching through her notes, not so much as sparing him a glance, “at noon sharp you have a luncheon with your mother-in-law and the board for the Castelo Foundation. That will last several hours. Next on the list is a photo shoot at four. You’ll have to go there directly from lunch. You’ll need to come home and change for a gala tonight. Your in-laws will be attending. Try not to embarrass them.”

  “Is that everything?” I asked. I already knew that all of the free time left after that schedule would be spent either eating or working with my personal trainer.

  “Since you don’t have anything until noon, I’ve scheduled you for two hours with your trainer starting at six forty-five. I see you already showered, but you’ll just have to shower again when you’re done. Hair and makeup will be here at nine thirty to prep you for the luncheon.”

  I just nodded. I’d expected as much as soon as I’d seen that I’d been allotted significant windows of free time.

  I left to get dressed, hoping that was the end of my morning interaction with Asha.

  No such luck. She followed me into my closet. “The paparazzi will be at your gym, so make sure you’re presentable.”

  I’d assumed as much. My workout was a very public affair. If you had a shiny new wife that worked her ass off at the gym on a daily basis, why not make the best of it and show her off?

  Paparazzi set up camp at the entrance to my swanky health club, taking pictures of me coming and going.

  Sometimes that was the extent of it, and other times they were allowed to take shots of my actual workout through the window, as though I was an unaware subject and they were my voyeurs.

  I treated it as any modeling job, using my best angles to make sure the photos would at least be flattering.

  “I don’t know if you saw the . . . rather distasteful photos they published of you two days ago. The ones featuring your . . . derriere.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course I’d seen them. They’d caught me in the middle of a grueling round of dirty dogs and taken full advantage. I’d assumed the whole thing was staged, as everything in my life was.

  “Your husband was rather . . . agitated by those, so he would prefer it if you could refrain from doing that specific exercise in front of the ground level windows.”

  “Do you think that was my idea? Reggie tells me how and where to train, and I do it. Take this up with him and whoever keeps calling the paparazzi every time I leave the house.”

  “I believe your husband has already done so, but in case he missed any details, you should have a mind toward displaying yourself in a more ladylike fashion at all times.”

  Asha relaying my husband’s messages to me was nothing new. We never communicated directly.

  It was almost laughable. I didn’t even have his phone number. Our people communicated for us.

  “You want me to
work out in a ladylike fashion?” I asked, an edge to my tone. “That’s not a thing, Asha.”

  She turned bright red with temper. “I don’t understand,” she spit out furiously, “how he could have found someone without one ounce of decorum or class. What he saw that made him choose a low-born slut like you I’ll never understand.” She was nearly foaming at the mouth by the end of her tirade.

  Ah. There she was. She tried her best to stay frostily composed, but this was the hateful bitch who’d trained me to be the perfect, soulless, mail-order bride. “You should know better than anyone that I’m not a slut,” I told her calmly. “You were in the room when I was examined for a hymen.”

  “A hymen that you sold like a common slut.”

  “I doubt common sluts get paid as much as I did,” I told her deadpan, purely for the purpose of riling her further. She wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I, so I figured I may as well make the best of it and give as good as I got.

  I made a shooing motion with my hand. “Now move along. This expensive slut would like some privacy while she gets dressed.”

  “As if you care,” she shot back as she moved away. “I’ve seen you at those vulgar modeling jobs of yours, changing like common riffraff for anyone to see.”

  I rolled my eyes as I walked to the large dresser that was designated for my workout gear.

  There was a binder on top, and it was open to a page spotlighting a blush pink workout ensemble that my personal dresser had designated for today’s exercise session. I carried the notebook across the closet.

  Closet was an understatement in every way. The room that held my rich wife wardrobe was twice the size of my last apartment.

  My stylist was organized to a fault, which made getting dressed simple but in the most complicated way.

  I had to follow the numbers she’d typed next to each piece of clothing to its matching rack.

  The top was a tiny, strappy pale pink sports bra that was numbered with a 67. I went to the bra section of the room and nabbed it off a hanger.